


The Long Shadow

by pepperine



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Discussion of Underage Relationships, Dorothea's backstory is immensely unpleasant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Church Route, Implied Felix/Annette, Implied Linhardt/Bernadetta, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Post-Canon, Ultra Rarepair Big Bang (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), discussion of incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26286127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperine/pseuds/pepperine
Summary: Nine years after the end of the war, Dorothea is haunted by the specter of her father. Her son is born with a Crest he could not have inherited from Ferdinand, and her suspicions about the nobleman from the opera are confirmed.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault & Hanneman von Essar, Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault
Comments: 26
Kudos: 132
Collections: 2020 Ultra Rarepair Big Bang





	The Long Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Illustrated by [@TAGASAING](https://twitter.com/tagasaing/status/1302794826954358789), for the [FE3H Ultra Rarepair Big Bang](https://twitter.com/ultrararepairb1). 
> 
> I’d like to apologize in advance to anyone who’s into Norse mythology if they cringe when they See What I Did There.

_Verdant Rain Moon, 1195_

Garreg Mach Monastery had changed considerably in the years following the war. 

With the enthronement of the Black Eagles’ dear professor Byleth as monarch of the United Kingdom of Fódlan, the once austere compound had grown increasingly palatial. Walls toppled by siege and neglect were rebuilt grander than before; gardens regrown lusher, with more artistry; empty courtyards filled with statuary, and shattered windows replaced with elaborate stained glass. Even the sunlight seemed brighter as it flooded the ancient limestone buildings, illuminating newly painted frescoes and sumptuous furniture. 

The growing opulence of the monastery was anything but incidental. It was meant to reflect the prosperity brought about by a unified Fódlan, representative of the comfort and abundance its citizens could expect under the direct power of the Church. Artists were commissioned from far and wide to depict the grace of the Goddess in ways even the unlettered masses could appreciate, the beauty of their work drawing people to the faith. An art movement spread across Fódlan, with Garreg Mach the crowning jewel at its center, unparalleled in its magnificence by even the palaces of old.

The monastery had become, quite simply, a home fit for a king.

In spite of this, however, Hanneman’s office remained much the same as it had been when Dorothea was a student. His furniture had not been replaced with anything grander, she noted, and although there were certainly more books lining his shelves, they appeared as carefully organized as ever. The dusty, electrical scent of magic still hung in the air, tickling at Dorothea’s nose and nearly making her sneeze, accompanied by the ever-present hum of magical instruments used in the identification and study of Crests.

Even the porcelain cup from which Dorothea sipped her favorite sweet apple tea was familiar—painted with yellow peonies, it was a tea set that Hanneman once told her belonged to his sister, and he treasured it dearly. She had admired it on many a Thursday afternoon, when she would retreat to her sorcery professor’s office for half an hour of delightfully unpresumptuous conversation before choir practice. It was, she’d often told Hanneman, the only way she’d make it through the next hour in the presence of both Lorenz Hellman Gloucester _and_ Ferdinand von Aegir with her faith in the nobility still relatively intact.

Speaking of Ferdinand, he now sat on Hanneman’s velvet couch beside Dorothea, chuckling as the squirming baby on his lap showered all three of them (and their tea) in ladyfinger crumbs, a sweet in one hand and a toy horse carved from wood in the other.

“You are such a messy thing,” Ferdinand laughed softly into his son’s dark hair, then paused to kiss just above his ear. “Your mother and I _had_ hoped you would make a good impression on the professor.”

Dorothea took another sip of her tea, a secret smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. She had never admitted it to anyone, of course, but amidst the endless frustrations about him that she’d vented to Hanneman all those years ago, at times she had wondered what kind of husband Ferdinand would be—what kind of father. 

She’d hated herself for even entertaining those thoughts, but looking back on it, she really had been onto something. Ferdinand had proved himself to be gentle, loving, and attentive on both fronts, leaving Dorothea happier than she’d ever deserved to be, surely. 

Now, she could not help but wonder if Hanneman had been able to see through her all along, her grievances becoming more and more hollow as her affections for Ferdinand quietly grew. 

“Oh, he was a delight, Your Excellency, I assure you,” said Hanneman, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. He stood behind his desk, gathering up the mess of papers scattered across its surface—notes on House Aegir’s lineage that spanned centuries, charts used to predict the manifestation of Crests and track the specifics of each occurrence within a bloodline, among many other things that lay beyond the scope of Dorothea’s concern.

In truth, she’d been hesitant to leave her son in Hanneman’s care all afternoon; Leopold had just learned to walk on his own, and it was nearly impossible for her to keep him out of trouble, even with the help of her nursemaids. How the aging professor had managed to conduct his tests apparently without incident, Dorothea could not imagine. 

She’d hoped that Linhardt would make the trip to Enbarr to determine Leopold’s Crest, the way he had when each of the girls was born. But he'd declined Ferdinand’s request, to no one’s real surprise—although he cited his fellow professors’ desire to meet the newest addition to House Aegir as his excuse for not leaving the monastery.

He did have a point, Dorothea supposed. He and Bernadetta were the only ones among Garreg Mach’s faculty to have met the children, and only because they’d traveled to Enbarr to be present for their births. Even if Dorothea _was_ a duchess now, Linhardt’s letter informed her dryly, that didn’t mean the world revolved entirely around her. All her old friends couldn’t simply drop what they were doing and traipse across half of Fódlan every time she had a baby. 

And so, at their first opportunity, she and Ferdinand gathered up the children and made the ten-day journey to Garreg Mach. Hanneman had been so pleased with their decision to visit that he’d all but elbowed Linhardt out of the way and insisted _he_ be the one to confirm the Crest of his dear Miss Dorothea’s son. (At which Dorothea had felt a horrid swell of guilt. Toward the end of the war, Hanneman confessed to her that she’d become like a daughter to him, yet she’d made no effort to visit him even once in the eight years since her wedding. She would have to remedy that from now on.) 

“Well, then,” said Hanneman, pulling Dorothea from her thoughts as he sat down in one of the chairs across from her and Ferdinand. He spread a number of the papers from his desk over the surface of the low table between them, careful not to get them too close to any piece of his beloved tea set.

A fresh cascade of ladyfinger crumbs scattered across the tabletop as Leopold nibbled at the cookie in his hand, and Dorothea was unable to contain a chuckle of her own at the sight. She didn’t miss the alarm in Hanneman’s eyes when Ferdinand reached forward, brushing the crumbs off the papers and onto the professor’s otherwise pristine floor without a second thought.

“Your Excellency and Your Grace will be pleased to know that no additional tests are necessary, as the results are quite conclusive,” Hanneman began. He was clearly struggling not to scold the Governor of the Former Imperial Adrestian Territories for sweeping his son’s cookie crumbs onto the rug. 

“It seems that our little Leopold here bears a minor Crest of Cethleann,” the professor continued, tapping his fingertips proudly on the sketch of a heart-shaped sigil laid out between them. “I believe congratulations are in order.”

Dorothea frowned in confusion, setting down her teacup.

Cethleann was not Ferdinand’s Crest. She knew it was one of the most common Crests in the Adrestian territories, and since her marriage into House Aegir, she’d come to make the acquaintance of several noble families who bore it. But it was almost exclusively limited to those from the northwest, and both of Ferdinand’s parents had hailed from the south.

“I am sorry, Professor,” said Ferdinand, so diplomatically that Dorothea almost couldn’t hear the consternation in her husband’s voice. “Perhaps I misheard. You said a Crest of Cichol, correct?”

“Oh, not at all!” Hanneman replied with a laugh, then took a sip of his own tea. “I may be getting on in years, but I still know my Saints’ Crests. And that is a Crest of Cethleann, if I have ever seen one. Your boy will, no doubt, have a magnificent aptitude for white magic, should you choose to cultivate his talents.” 

“I am afraid I do not understand,” said Ferdinand. His eyebrows had drawn together, and the look of concern on his face was unmistakable. “House Aegir has borne the grace of Saint Cichol since antiquity. My mother was a Varley, but a Crest has not manifested in her line for several generations—and even then, one would expect a Crest of Indech, or perhaps even Gloucester.”

“I am well aware of the Crests that lie in your ancestry, Your Excellency,” said Hanneman, far too amicably, as though he and Ferdinand were discussing nothing more pressing than the breeding of roses. “After all, it was I who published _The Compendium of Adrestian Genealogical Crestology_ , and—inadvertently, I must emphasize—sparked the scandal surrounding your cousin Josephine’s parentage.” 

“Forgive me, I did not intend to call into question your expertise on the subject,” Ferdinand conceded, but it was plain to see that his patience was already wearing thin. “I am merely trying to ascertain how my son has come to bear a Crest that makes no appearance in my lineage.”

“That is because the Crest does not _come_ from you—” 

In a single moment, Dorothea felt as though she had been plunged into an icy sea, her breath pulled from her lungs, and her heart seized by the jaws of whatever ancient leviathan lay beneath its waves. 

The nobleman from the opera. Her father.

This was his Crest.

“ _Hanneman_ ,” Dorothea choked out, but then corrected herself, trying to force some semblance of composure. “Professor. He doesn’t know.”

She had never told Ferdinand. 

Dorothea knew it was unfair of her to keep such secrets, especially when the faults of Ferdinand’s own father had been laid out for all the world to see. But she was not Ferdinand, no matter how much she wished his fortitude and his dignity were her own. Her heart was not strong enough to confront the things that hurt her. And as the years passed, Dorothea had realized it was easier to bury them, to simply pretend those painful indignities had never happened at all. 

Where Ferdinand would work tirelessly to right the wrongs of his father and ensure justice prevailed, Dorothea could only hope to insulate herself from what hers had done, like a mollusk covering a grain of sand with layer after layer of nacre. But now it seemed the oyster farmer had come for her, wrenching her shell open with a knife, revealing a pearl far too ugly and misshapen to be of any use.

Dorothea stared guiltily at her hands, fingers clenched in the fabric of her long skirt, digging her nails in as she waited for either Hanneman or her husband to say something, to break the painful silence that hung over them.

“Uh-oh,” Leopold cooed softly, wriggling on Ferdinand’s lap as he reached out his tiny hands to her. Dorothea did not have to look to know her son’s face had drawn up in concern; he was startlingly perceptive to her emotions, far more so than either of his sisters. “Mama, uh-oh.”

“Oh, dear me,” Hanneman finally stuttered. “I am sorry, I— Please, forgive me, Miss Doro— _Your Grace_. I had not considered that you might not have told His Excellency.”

“Told me what? Dorothea—” Ferdinand’s voice was tense in a way she hadn’t heard since the final days of the war, and it made her heart positively ache.

At last, Dorothea pulled her gaze from her hands, looking up toward Hanneman, who immediately averted his eyes from her.

“Could you, um, excuse us for a few minutes, please?” she asked, willing her voice not to wobble. She did not want an audience for this conversation, and she knew Ferdinand would not, either.

“Yes, of course,” Hanneman agreed with a nod, although unsure of where to look. “Yes, that would be best, wouldn’t it? Again, I am so very sorry, Your Grace.” 

He made a few useless motions as he stood, like he wished to gather up the charts and sketches spread out across the table but decided against it. After only a few steps toward the door, Hanneman stopped and gave Dorothea and Ferdinand a bow that was stiff but incredibly deep. Then the old professor turned and all but fled his office, nearly slamming the door behind him in his haste.

A heavy silence fell over the room, and the only sound Dorothea could perceive was her own heartbeat thudding in her ears.

She did not want this to be true. She did not want to tell her husband any of this was true. 

“Dorothea,” Ferdinand began after several long moments, now unable to hide the fear in his voice. The blood had drained from his face, and his gaze seemed to bore into her, pleading with her to say everything was all right, to chide him for jumping to conclusions and scaring himself over nothing. 

“This is my son,” he said slowly, his knuckles growing white as he held tight to Leopold with shaking hands, causing the baby to fuss in discomfort. “Please, tell me this is my son.”

Dorothea would have rather he’d drawn the sword at his hip and plunged it between her ribs; it would not have hurt her quite so much. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, willing herself not to cry at the accusation. She loved Ferdinand, wholly and deeply, with a devotion so intense that most of her friends could not even comprehend it. The noblewomen in her dining club in Enbarr, many bound by political marriages, often teased Dorothea for her disinterest in taking a paramour. But what use did she have for another lover when she had Ferdinand’s unending adoration?

That he would think she’d lain with another man made Dorothea sick.

“Of course he’s your son,” she spat, but instantly regretted her venom. “Just… just look at him.”

Physically, at least, Leopold was unmistakably Ferdinand’s child. Although sensitive and shy, the boy bore a striking resemblance to his father, from his wide golden eyes down to the delicate taper of his toes. They shared the same arched brows, the same wide smile, the same dimpled cheeks—the only part of herself Dorothea could see in him was the color of his hair, and even that curled around her fingers the way Ferdinand’s did when he had cropped it short after the war. 

“Then what is going on?” he urged, heedless of the way the urgency in his tone made Dorothea wince—and their son begin to sniffle at her distress. “What have you kept from me?”

“Look, I didn’t think it mattered because I couldn’t prove it until now,” said Dorothea, more defensively than she’d intended, but hoping to somehow explain herself before actually giving an explanation. “It was just… a suspicion I had.”

Leopold reached out for her with a whine, and seeing that Ferdinand would not comfort him, she leaned forward to take him into her arms.

“ _What_ was a suspicion? Dorothea, I beg of you—” 

As soon as she’d pulled their son from his grasp, Ferdinand slid out of his seat to kneel on the floor in front of her, clinging desperately to her hand with both of his own. He’d proposed to her like this, Dorothea realized distantly, slipping the heavy emerald ring he’d carried with him throughout the war—a keepsake of his mother’s—onto her finger with a pleading look in his eyes.

But unlike then, when it seemed she could not reply to him fast enough, she now had no desire to give Ferdinand an answer.

“My father,” said Dorothea, struggling to find the right words. “He’s a noble. The Viscount of Rhanne. Leo has his Crest.”

Ferdinand’s grip on her hand loosened, the frantic look in his eyes melting into a gentler confusion in the time it took for him to fully comprehend the statement.

“Oh,” he said simply.

Viscount Konrad von Rhanne was, it had been Dorothea’s displeasure to learn, something of an old friend to the former Duke Aegir. When Edelgard began purging dissenters from Adrestia’s noble houses, Viscount Rhanne had taken his family and disappeared from the capital, only emerging years later from a village in Fódlan’s Fangs. And as one of Ludwig von Aegir’s few surviving allies, Ferdinand honored the Viscount’s friendship with House Aegir by reinstating his peerage after the war, and the two maintained a cordial—if somewhat impersonal—relationship. 

As much as she hated the Viscount for what he had done to her and her mother, Dorothea was loath to expose the truth about him to Ferdinand. Not long after their wedding, she’d let slip the name of a young nobleman who had tried to force himself on her when she was in the opera; Ferdinand maimed the man in the ensuing duel, taking off half his ear and the tips of two fingers in what Dorothea knew to be an act of remarkable restraint. But his reputation had been irreparably tarnished by the incident, however justified it may have been in her eyes, with several noble houses vehemently opposing his appointment to Adrestia’s governorship over half a decade later.

Although Ferdinand’s hot temper had cooled somewhat since, Dorothea didn’t trust her husband would not act rashly against Viscount Rhanne. She had never wished for retribution or even recompense—merely to forget the pain he had inflicted upon her—and she knew she would find no satisfaction in whatever punishment Ferdinand meted out. In the long run, he was only going to hurt himself. He already had so many enemies, and by retaliating against a man whose actions were not even unlawful, to Dorothea’s knowledge, Ferdinand was only ensuring the path before him would grow steeper and rockier.

With a defeated sigh, Dorothea hugged Leopold to her chest, comforted by the way he snuggled against her. 

“He— The Viscount—” she stuttered, racking her brain for the details to a story she’d only heard in bits and pieces throughout her childhood. “He had a son with a Crest once, but… I don’t know, something happened to him. I think there was some kind of territorial dispute up north, and he must have been killed in the fighting. You’d probably know more about it than me.”

Ferdinand nodded in understanding, rising from the floor and slipping back into his seat on the couch beside Dorothea, the look of concern never leaving his face.

“But the Viscount,” she continued, “He and his wife were getting on in years, and they had this succession crisis on their hands and no way to produce another heir. So the Viscount panicked. Bedded as many women as he could. I heard he intended to pass off any child with a Crest as his wife’s, but…”

She trailed off with a shake of her head. 

“My mother was a handmaid to his youngest daughter,” Dorothea finished. “Or his youngest legitimate daughter, I suppose. ”

Ferdinand gave her a mournful look, his mouth open as if he wished to say something, but simply could not find the right words. 

In contrast to her father, Dorothea had spoken to him of her mother, Rosalind Arnault, quite often, telling him as much as she could in hopes that her memory would endure just a little longer, even if some details were obscured. 

Rosalind was a handmaid who’d found there was more money to be earned in wet nursing after Dorothea’s birth, she’d told him, a beautiful young woman who’d died of cholera at only twenty-five, and who was buried in a potter’s field at the northern edge of Enbarr. The pink opal ring that now adorned Ferdinand’s left hand had been hers—a gift from the Viscount’s daughter, Lady Gisela. _To my dearest Rosie_ , the etching inside the band read. 

“Oh, Dorothea,” Ferdinand said at last, watching her with sad eyes. Absently, he worried at the ring with his thumb, a habit he’d developed almost immediately after he’d started wearing it. “I am so… You never told me.”

It was not an accusation, and Dorothea was grateful.

“No, I guess I didn’t,” she agreed quietly. “I had no proof, and I thought… I _hoped_ that maybe I was wrong. I’ve been wrong about a lot of things before.”

She gave Ferdinand a pained smile, unbidden thoughts of how badly she’d misjudged him flooding her mind. He’d tried to maintain the in-joke about the bee for months after the war ended, until Dorothea broke down into tears in embarrassment over the way she’d treated him, begging him to stop reminding her of her own pointless cruelty.

“What?” asked Ferdinand, returning her shaky smile, but clearly not understanding the intent behind it. “Why would you wish any of this to not be so? Your life could have— _Our_ lives could have been so much simpler, had the Viscount only recognized you as his daughter sooner.”

“Ferdie,” Dorothea warned. His voice was growing louder with every word he spoke, more confident, more determined. And Dorothea did not like it.

“It goes without saying, of course, but I will have the legal documents drawn up the moment we arrive home in Enbarr,” said Ferdinand, straightening his back and looking every bit the Governor of the Former Imperial Adrestian Territories. 

“Between your testimony and Leopold’s Crest, you have proof now that Konrad von Rhanne is your father,” he continued firmly. “It is not as though he would deny the claim. Why, surely the scoundrel will be falling all over himself to accept a grandson bearing his family’s Crest. And I shall see to it personally that your father gives you everything you are owed.”

“ _Ferdie_ ,” Dorothea repeated, unable to ignore the dread that had begun pooling in the pit of her stomach. She gave Leopold a gentle squeeze, rubbing her hand across the flat of his back in a way meant to be comforting, although perhaps it was for her own sake more than his.

“That’s sweet, and you know I appreciate it, but…” She shook her head. “I would really rather not.”

“You would rather not what?” asked Ferdinand, caught entirely off guard by her response.

“I don’t want him to know about Leo’s Crest,” said Dorothea, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced away from Ferdinand, unable to meet his hard, questioning stare. 

If the simple fact that Viscount Rhanne was her father was the only matter at play here, Dorothea likely would have told her husband about it years ago. Perhaps she would have even been the one pushing Ferdinand to demand recompense for her abandonment, to bleed House Rhanne dry just for the satisfaction of it. 

But it had never been merely about that. What had happened years later—meeting her father at the opera—had compounded the issue enormously. A man who would forsake his own infant daughter was despicable, but one who would lust after her, as well? Simply monstrous. There was nothing Ferdinand could do that would make the reality of Dorothea’s encounter with her father easier to live with. He could not undo the degradation she’d felt, or the outrage, or the humiliation. 

She had only ever wanted to divorce herself from those feelings, to bury the memory so deep that someday she would forget, and it would almost be like it hadn’t happened. 

“I understand how you feel,” said Ferdinand, halting and diplomatic, and it was a mistake. 

“And I must admit,” he continued, unaware of how every presumptuous word provoked more of Dorothea’s ire. “A part of me feels the same. A man who leaves a trail of children in his wake and simply throws them to the gutter does not deserve even the knowledge of the sole grandson he deems worthy. But I swear to you, he _will—_ ”

“Don’t tell me you understand!” Dorothea snapped, standing from her seat on the couch so suddenly that Leopold let out a startled wail, dropping his toy horse. Her leg knocked against the table in front of them, rattling the tea set, but the pain in her knee was insignificant compared to her annoyance.

Not even wishing to look at Ferdinand, she strode to the window behind Hanneman’s desk, gazing down into the yard of the Officers Academy below. Their two daughters danced about on the grass, accompanied by a gleeful-looking Annette, the hair on all three of them appearing even more fiery than usual in the late afternoon sun.

Gently, Dorothea began to rock the baby in her arms as she watched the girls leap and twirl, ensuring Leopold’s pathetic whimpers did not escalate into full blown tears.

“You don’t,” she repeated, softer this time. “You don’t understand anything.” 

Ferdinand, meanwhile, remained frozen in place on the couch, taken aback by her outburst.

“My love?” he asked, clearly unsure how he should even proceed now, and Dorothea found herself once again regretting her sharpness.

“I don’t want to see him ever again,” she said simply. 

And it was the truth. She did not want to see him. She did not want him to recognize her as his daughter, or for him to hear a single word about her or the children. She did not want him to even remember that she existed.

But most of all, she did not want to tell Ferdinand why.

“Might I ask you to elaborate, my darling?” he asked, to her dismay. 

At last, he stood from the couch, his gait tentative and careful as he joined her by the window. After a moment of hesitation, he rested a hand at the small of Dorothea’s back, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the bodice of her dress, his touch steady and reassuring.

“Perhaps I do not understand,” Ferdinand said gently, “But I wish you would help me try.”

Dorothea stared up into his eyes—the loveliest shade of gold in the sunlight—and she knew she had to explain herself. She could not go back. She had to confront what her father had done. It had been inevitable since the moment Leopold was born with that damnable Crest. 

Giving a weak nod as she glanced away, she allowed Ferdinand to guide her back to the couch. He smiled and fussed over the baby as she sat, kissing her temple before refilling her cup with sweet apple tea. 

“I… met Viscount Rhanne once,” Dorothea began, watching as Ferdinand broke another ladyfinger in half for Leopold, whose first cookie had disappeared without either of them noticing. The mundanity of the action eased her tension somewhat, a gentle display of domesticity to remind her how deeply she loved her husband.

“The winter after I turned fifteen,” she continued. “You remember what things were like for young girls back in those days, right?”

“Yes,” Ferdinand replied, brightening. “Before my father changed—”

“Changed the marriage age, yes.” 

That was one of Ferdinand’s favorite anecdotes about his father. A few years prior to his enrollment at the Officers Academy, Duchess Aegir had gone behind her husband’s back and arranged a wholly undesirable marriage between Ferdinand and one of her own distant relatives, hoping to boost House Varley’s standing in the Empire even further. While Ferdinand had been too sheltered to truly comprehend the implications of marrying within one’s own family, he balked at his mother’s unsettling description of Bernadetta, allowing his imagination to run wild and refusing to marry her out of fear.

When he’d begged his father to break off the engagement, Duke Aegir took it a step further; he’d introduced legislation to prohibit marriages (and the intimate relations therein) between insufficiently distant relatives, and between any parties under the age of twenty. It had been massively unpopular with the older generations of the nobility at the time, and a great number of arrangements had to be renegotiated. But many younger nobles came to appreciate it quite quickly, and although few ever learned that Duke Aegir’s reasoning behind enacting those laws was merely to spite his scheming wife, Ferdinand always found the story amusing.

For Dorothea, however, the change had come too late; she’d reached a marriageable age long before the legislation took effect, and oh, did the nobles let her know it.

“Men back then, they were like dogs,” she mused after a sip of tea. “Just a whiff that a girl had turned fifteen— _fifteen_ —and there’d be a whole pack of them on you, chasing after you like hounds. And Viscount Rhanne… He was one of those hounds.”

“Oh, Dorothea…” Ferdinand’s face paled.

“He let himself into my dressing room one night after a performance of _The Chancellor's War_ ,” she said, setting her teacup aside. “I was already so used to that kind of thing happening that I didn’t think much of it. To be honest, I was actually _impressed_ by his manners at first. Can you believe it?”

Dorothea gave a bitter laugh at the memory. She had been so naïve, allowing herself to think that a man who was not the absolute worst was somehow admirable.

“Most men would get handsy or proposition me right away, but the Viscount didn’t,” she continued, and for one sickening moment, she could recall her own appreciation for his civility, her thoughts that maybe this man was different from the rest. 

“He sat on this velvet chair by my dressing table with a bottle of sherry, and he talked to me for a long time. About the opera. _The Chancellor’s War_ was his favorite show, he said, and that I was the most beautiful Antonia he’d ever seen. Such a wonderful little actress…”

Dorothea paused, reluctant to advance the story, as if she could undo what had happened if she simply stopped speaking.

“But then,” she said haltingly, “He started telling me about this girl he used to know—a handmaid who worked for his family. He said I looked just like her.”

Ferdinand had not touched the tea he’d poured for himself; instead he sat stiffly with his hands resting on his thighs, eyes sharp with outrage, like he intended to stand at any moment to fend off a man a thousand miles away and twenty years in the past.

“I don’t… remember all the details of the story he told me, to be honest,” Dorothea admitted, looking away. Her fingers played absently over the smooth silk of Leopold’s jacket. “He’d had a lot to drink at that point, and I could see it was starting to affect him. I didn’t really understand what he was getting at.” 

“But he told me that his son was dead,” she said, unable to keep the tremor out of her voice now. “And that he’d slept with that beautiful maid of his, hoping she would give him another child with a Crest. And when he found out that baby couldn’t replace his son, he threw them both away. Said he had to. I was appalled. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t put things together until then,” said Dorothea. “I was so young when my mother died that she never told me much of anything important about herself.”

“But I knew she worked for House Rhanne,” she said. Tears had begun to fill her eyes, and she didn’t understand why it was _this_ that was making her cry when it was not even the worst of what she had to say. “I knew I was born under the Viscount’s roof. And I knew that everyone used to call me _rosebud_ , because… she was Rosie. And I looked just like her.”

Dorothea paused to sniffle, wiping at her eyes and hoping that she wouldn’t smear her makeup. If she had to cry about this, then at the very least, she didn’t want anyone but her husband to know about it. 

“My darling, I…” 

For once, Ferdinand seemed to have no words for her. He reached for Dorothea’s hand, enveloping it with both of his own and giving it a squeeze, before letting his arms fall limp as he absently stroked her knuckles with his fingers. Even as Dorothea sniffled, she tried to smile for him, but Ferdinand did not return it, merely staring at her with sorrowful eyes and a newfound understanding of her tender heart.

“And it… wasn’t just that,” Dorothea said after a long moment, once the urge to sob had abated somewhat. She took a long breath in, steeling herself. 

“He… Goddess, I don’t even know if I can say it,” she said, appalled by the way an empty, self-conscious laugh followed the statement.

Ferdinand nodded. His gentle expression had quickly faded into one of concern.

“The Viscount, he—” Dorothea stuttered. “He asked me if I would accompany him home that night in his carriage. He said he wanted me to dress up like one of the maids at his estate, and pretend… like I worked for him. For old time’s sake, he said.”

She closed her eyes, turning her head so her cheek pressed against Leopold’s soft hair for a few moments, soothed by his clean, soapy scent.

“He missed that pretty handmaid of his so much, and the sight of her in his bed. _Such a wonderful little actress_ , he called me, asking me to pretend to be my own mother,” Dorothea spat, her fingers fisting in Leopold’s jacket. 

“And I was so stunned that I didn’t stop him when he reached out to touch me.”

The sound Ferdinand made was not a gasp, but rather a loud, slow intake of breath, his jaw tight and eyes wild with alarm.

“He… only touched my face,” Dorothea was quick to clarify, although it did nothing to placate Ferdinand. She could feel her own throat growing tight, as well, and her eyes clouding with hot, angry tears.

“But… the smell of his clothes—it was so distinct, but I _remembered_ it. I was so tiny when I was forced out, but I remembered the way the inside of his house smelled.” 

“And I _knew_ ,” she choked out, her voice high and tight, tears flooding down her cheeks at last. “I _knew_ he was my father, Ferdie.”

Immediately, Dorothea hugged Leopold tight, leaning down and pressing her forehead to his so Ferdinand would not have to watch her face as she cried in earnest, unable to stop the sobs that shook her shoulders and made her gasp for air. Leopold fussed at the contact, bringing his hands up to touch Dorothea’s cheeks and the curtain of her long hair, helpless to soothe his mother’s sorrow but desperate to try nonetheless.

Ferdinand, however, merely laced his fingers together, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands and his elbows on his knees. He remained completely silent and unmoving like this, staring hard across the room for quite a while, until Dorothea’s hiccupping sobs quieted.

“Dorothea,” he finally said, the look on his face and the tone of his voice both unreadable. “This man… attended our wedding.”

“I know,” she replied dully. 

“Our _wedding_ ,” Ferdinand insisted with a shake of his head. “And you did not say anything, not a single word to stop me from inviting him.”

“I know.”

“Why would you allow it? Why did you not tell me any of this until now?” he asked, just a hint of impatience bleeding through into his words, but it was enough to make Dorothea feel like something had collapsed inside of her. 

Ferdinand should be comforting her, pulling her close and telling her how strong she was for bearing such a heavy burden alone these last twenty years. He should not be interrogating her as to why she had not stood and faced such a sensitive, uncertain matter head-on, and risked destroying a friendship Ferdinand himself claimed to cherish as a return to normalcy for House Aegir. 

How could he be so insensitive, so demanding, so _unreasonable_ , at a time like this? Dorothea blinked away the tears that had begun to well up in her eyes once again, her attempt to hold back her voice lasting only a moment.

“Because I didn’t want this to be real!” she cried, more angry with Ferdinand than she could ever remember being. “Until today, I could pretend that it was all just some absurd coincidence—that I was just a silly girl whose imagination got the better of her.”

“There was no proof that the handmaid the Viscount talked about was my mother. And I _liked_ it that way, Ferdie,” she admitted, her voice lower now but no less firm, challenging him to keep pushing her with a hard stare of her own. 

“I was happier having no father at all than one who wanted to fuck me.”

The expression on Ferdinand’s face was one of shock and displeasure, completely taken aback by her outburst. He blinked at her several times, frowning as though he’d been struck, before averting his gaze downward, arched brows drawing together the way they always did when he was upset or angry. Leaning forward, he reached a hand up to rub at his temples in aggravation, the look in his eyes unreadable behind his palm.

Dorothea huffed, turning her attention to Leopold once more. This whole exchange was clearly distressing him; she wished he could be outside with his sisters right now, rolling around in the grass, giggling as Annette tickled his chin with a buttercup. Even if he didn’t understand, he shouldn’t be forced to witness this, his mother fighting back tears as she shouted as his father. Dorothea kissed his forehead, then handed Leopold the other piece of the ladyfinger Ferdinand had broken for him earlier, murmuring soft words of consolation as he babbled fretfully.

“Earlier,” said Ferdinand, firm and steady after taking a few moments to compose himself, “Before Hanneman left, you spoke to him as though he knew of this.” 

“He does,” Dorothea replied simply, brushing her son’s cookie crumbs off the intricate silk ruffles of her skirt. “When you and I were at school here, he asked me why I hated the nobility so much. And so I told him.”

“You believed he would understand,” said Ferdinand, and Dorothea did not miss the disdainful look in his eye, nor the way the words _but not me_ seemed to loom heavily over what he’d just said.

Was Ferdinand truly intending to play the victim here? Because she kept a secret from him? And one she had not even been able to confirm was true until today? She could hardly believe it. 

“It is _not_ like that,” she warned, feeling the heat of anger prickling at the back of her neck again.

“I was… Things were different back then.” Dorothea heaved a sigh of exasperation. “When I was in the opera, I endured so much cruelty and violation by noblemen who felt entitled to me. And it was _constant_. But I felt like, if I could act blasé about it, then maybe none of it was really that big a deal. It hurt less if I treated it like it was nothing. So if someone asked, I would tell them about it. And Hanneman did ask. You didn’t.”

“I see,” Ferdinand replied. He furrowed his brows, if possible, even deeper, anger plain on his face. 

This was not exactly true, and they both knew it. If Ferdinand had approached her when they were students and attempted to pry into her personal matters, Dorothea would have immediately rebuffed him. It was not his business, and she didn’t trust him enough to let it become his business. She would not have given him a reason to look down on her further than she’d assumed he already did.

Hanneman was different, though. He understood how much the nobility’s obsession with Crests could make a person suffer, and had willingly given up his status in protest. He was admirable and principled, kind and selfless, one of the few people Dorothea thought was actually deserving of being called noble. He was everything she’d wished her own father had been, and even though she had not known him particularly well when they’d approached the subject, she still felt comfortable sharing the secret with him.

Perhaps it was not fair of Dorothea to keep this story from her husband, but really, what choice did she have? She could not prove her claims, and even if she’d been able to, she could not risk Ferdinand acting rashly in retaliation and losing whatever hard-won trust he had managed to earn back. At best, telling Ferdinand would have severed one of his few remaining connections to his life before the war, and Dorothea had no desire to put him through that if she didn’t have to.

She’d kept quiet about this not simply to keep her own glass heart from breaking, but to protect Ferdinand’s, as well. And here he was, so angry at her for it that he was throwing back his tea almost like it was hard liquor, fine manners forgotten as he drained the cup in a few quick gulps. 

Dorothea’s lip quivered in indignation.

“Is that it, then?” she asked, her eyes infuriatingly wet. “You’re going to pout because I told Professor Hanneman something before you?”

Ferdinand stared at her in confusion, the ire on his face disappearing as quickly as sunlight emerging from behind a cloud on a windy day.

“I— No… What?” he stammered.

“I just told you my own father tried to sleep with me,” spat Dorothea. “And the fact that I didn’t tell you sooner is what upset you? Not what happened to me?”

“I—” His mouth fell open, a look of horror and devastation taking the place of everything that had come before it.

“Forgive me, I—” Hearing Dorothea sniffle, Ferdinand stumbled even more desperately over his words. “I simply—I was not thinking. My anger got the better of me, and my attempt at understanding the situation was— I am sorry.” 

A pause as he assessed the severity of his mistake. Dorothea dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, having given up on maintaining the flawlessness of her makeup.

Ferdinand could be, well, _difficult_ at times, so preoccupied with what was going on in his own head that he neglected to consider the feelings or perspectives of others. He was not unintelligent by any means—quite the opposite, in fact—but merely distracted by his thoughts. Dorothea had long since learned to take his tactlessness in stride, as it was something that distressed Ferdinand a great deal whenever it was pointed out to him, and he often lamented his inability to overcome it. 

But she could not deny that sometimes his carelessness stung too much to overlook, and that it could lead Ferdinand to cross a line, intentionally or not. 

“You did nothing wrong, and I did not intend to make you feel as though you had,” he said, at last retrieving his handkerchief for her. “I was insensitive in my reaction.”

Dorothea nodded, her shaky smile appearing as more of a grimace in her state. That Ferdinand’s anger was not actually directed at her lifted a heavy weight from her chest.

“And,” he continued, “I must apologize further for my own imperception. I am well aware of how I fail to notice the discomfort of others at times, and I must wonder now if there were signs of your unhappiness that I simply did not see. I would not have allowed you to endure that man’s presence for even a moment, had I realized something was amiss.”

The sound Dorothea made was supposed to have been a chuckle, but at least to her own ears, it registered more as a sob. In truth, she could not blame Ferdinand for not recognizing her immense dislike of Viscount Rhanne. There were dozens of nobles in their immediate social circle whose very presence offended Dorothea, and even in spite of her talent as an actress, it was often difficult for her to mask her displeasure entirely. She’d even gotten wind once of a game certain nobles liked to play at gatherings, taking petty bets on whoever could elicit the coldest reaction from Duchess Aegir that particular evening. Ferdinand had always done what he could to make her encounters with the nobility more agreeable, but he could not insulate Dorothea completely from those whose company she did not enjoy. 

As she began wiping her teary eyes on Ferdinand’s handkerchief, Leopold began to wiggle and squirm in her lap, having finally grown dissatisfied to remain in his mother’s arms. Dorothea kissed his cheek, and with a watery smile, set him down onto the floor. Promptly, he crawled beneath the low table to retrieve the toy he’d dropped earlier.

Perhaps feeling more inclined toward physical affection when his son was out of sight, Ferdinand leaned forward, sighing as he reached up to brush Dorothea’s hair out of her face. Staring dolefully into her eyes, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering along her cheek and jaw.

“It pains me greatly to know how much joy he has taken from you, my love,” said Ferdinand, and under his gaze, Dorothea felt herself begin to crumble. His sympathy only reinforced how miserably, achingly _real_ this was now.

Viscount Rhanne was her father. The man who propositioned her at fifteen years old—asked her to pretend to be her own mother—was her father. And Ferdinand _knew_.

Dorothea’s lip quivered and her vision swam, and the tightness in her throat made it difficult for her to speak. 

“I just—” she hiccupped, covering her mouth with a hand to try to hold in her sobs for a moment longer, fat tears spilling down over her fingers. “It isn’t fair, Ferdie.”

Carefully, Ferdinand moved closer, taking Dorothea into his arms and pulling her tightly against him, heedless of the way her tear-streaked face rested against the shoulder of his coat, staining the wine-colored wool with her makeup. She leaned into him, desperate for his warmth and his familiar scent, pressing her face hard into his shoulder, his hair sticking to her wet cheeks and lips. 

Twenty years of shame and anger and disgust were now bubbling to the surface, her limp body wracked by heaving sobs. But Ferdinand was safe, so safe, a place where Dorothea wanted to hide for the rest of her days, encircled by his arms and braced against his ribs, until this grief no longer choked her heart.

“I know,” he murmured, and she could hear the distress in his voice.

“You will never see that man again, my darling. I promise you this,” he continued. “What he has done to you is unforgivable, and I would sooner fall upon my own sword than allow him near you or the children. I will deal with him personally when we return to Enbarr.”

And in that moment, Dorothea no longer thought of the consequences. 

* * *

The last time Dorothea set foot in Garreg Mach Cathedral had been on her wedding day, just over eight years ago. Its restoration had been finished quickly compared to the rest of the monastery, financed in large part by the newly-appointed Duke Aegir, to ensure the wedding ceremony was just as grand and magnificent as his bride deserved. The cathedral had been filled with nobles from all over Fódlan, many of whom were meeting Ferdinand in person for the first time, having only known him through written correspondence sent on behalf of the Church. They had praised the splendor of the cathedral, and of the halls across the bridge, where a large banquet had taken place in celebration of Duke Aegir’s marriage.

In spite of the shadow of her father that had loomed over the wedding, Dorothea remembered few events as fondly. She’d waltzed with Ferdinand easily a dozen times that evening, smiling and laughing with him in a way she had not allowed herself to at the Establishment Day ball, so reluctant to accept that she might just like him more than she wanted to admit. 

It had been wise of him to bring her here now, Dorothea mused, settling into the front row of pews. The evening sun slanted perfectly through stained glass windows Ferdinand himself had commissioned, stunning depictions of the Goddess and the Four Saints casting pools of colored light across the marble floor. The rest of the cathedral was illuminated by the gentle glow of candelabras, making it difficult to see just how red Dorothea’s eyes had grown from crying.

The first time she had kissed Ferdinand, it had been inside the cathedral. She’d let him follow her to the Goddess Tower (where he claimed their meeting was purely coincidental, of course), and she’d insisted on taking a detour on their way back to the ball, tugging him into the cathedral and behind a column for a secret peck on the cheek. And it was here, too, where Dorothea realized she had no reason to hate Ferdinand, standing only feet away from the spot where they were eventually married when he told her he wanted to spend his life with her.

If any place in the world could ease Dorothea’s sorrows, it was surely this cathedral.

Ferdinand kneeled before the altar, hands clasped and head bowed in silent prayer. He’d just come from the dining hall, where he’d left Leopold with his sisters and Annette. The girls had been eager to show off their table manners to their new best friend, he’d told Dorothea, and Annette was more than delighted to get her hands on a baby. It was a shame she and Felix were so devoted to the Officers Academy; they’d make exceptional private tutors for the girls.

Dorothea watched as Ferdinand rose gracefully to his feet, then turned to descend the small set of stairs before the altar. Colored light from the windows danced over his form as he made his way toward her, his steps even and the sound of his boots on the marble floor quiet.

“May I ask you something, Dorothea?” he began, his voice unusually subdued for how much distance remained between them. “It has been weighing heavily on my mind since we left Hanneman’s office.”

“Sure,” she replied. She sounded stuffy, like she’d come down with a cold in the last two hours, but perhaps that was expected.

“When we were at school together,” said Ferdinand, “You were surrounded by nobles who flocked to you like bees to a flower. There were so many that, at times, it felt like a blessing to capture your attention for even a few moments. I was far from the most demanding of your suitors. Yet you always hated me the most.”

“Yes, well, we had a history,” she said simply, a wave of guilt washing over her.

Out of all the students at the academy, the only person Dorothea had actually met prior to her enrollment was Ferdinand. To a destitute orphan who’d only known apathy and disgust from the nobility, Ferdinand’s long, silent stare of wonderment and bashful retreat had only registered as more of the same. 

The incident itself hadn’t even been particularly hurtful at the time, just a bit irritating, and she likely wouldn’t have recognized Ferdinand at all were it not for the color of his hair—an unusual shade among Adrestians. No, it was his volte-face when they met again at the academy that had outraged Dorothea. He had shunned her when she was nobody, a nameless little waif utterly deprived of kindness, only to immediately fall under the spell of the Mystical Songstress, beautiful and talented and _oh_ -so in demand. 

Dorothea knew there were dozens of nobles who would have done exactly the same, had she had the misfortune of running into them as children. But Ferdinand was unique in that he was the only one she had actually met, and so she’d reserved a special kind of contempt for him alone, clinging desperately to it even as her fondness for him grew.

The mortification Dorothea had felt when he’d told her it was all just a misunderstanding was unparalleled, and sometimes she still couldn’t believe Ferdinand was capable of loving someone who’d pushed him away for so long.

“Indeed we did,” he agreed, giving her a weak smile, apologetic but not entirely reassuring. “And I believe I may have come to understand that history a little better now.”

“Have you?” asked Dorothea, and Ferdinand nodded. She was not eager to hear what her husband had to say on the matter right now, and she bit her lip.

“Once,” he said softly, “Inside this very cathedral, you told me of your life before the opera. You spoke of nobles who scorned you and abused you, and who did nothing to save a little girl living alone on the streets. And you told me you believed I was no different from them.”

Ashamed, Dorothea looked away, staring hard at the pool of colored light on the floor before her. She wished she had never said those things to Ferdinand, all her accusations and insults fashioned to hurt him as much as possible now cutting her own heart to pieces. 

“But now I have begun to wonder,” he continued, his voice growing even softer still as he stepped closer. “Was it truly only them you saw in me? Or was it your father, as well?” 

The breath caught in Dorothea’s throat, and she found herself turning to look at Ferdinand in horror, tears filling her stinging eyes. 

“The rejection you felt when I ran from you,” he said gently, “And your indignation when I not only did not recognize you, but attempted to court you… My actions were careless, and even if you did not realize it at the time, I believe you saw your father in them.”

They were the same, she thought, pressing both hands over her mouth to quell her sobs. That was why she’d been so disgusted by the change in his demeanor at the academy. However unintentionally, Ferdinand’s actions had mirrored those of Viscount Rhanne. And Dorothea had allowed her resentment toward her father to spill over onto him, acting as though she was justified in hating someone in a way she did not even truly comprehend. 

Ferdinand sat down on the pew beside her, looking remorseful for even having brought up the subject at all. With no one else in the cathedral to see the act of impropriety, he lifted his arm up high over the back of the pew and rested it around Dorothea’s shoulders, pulling her gently against his side. 

She sniffled into her hands for a few long moments, before speaking in an unsteady voice.

“Ferdie, I don’t—I don’t know what to say.”

The look of distress on Ferdinand’s face grew stronger, and he reached into the pocket of his coat, retrieving his handkerchief for a second time that day. The soft material was stained with smears of grey and pink and red, the remnants of the makeup Dorothea had applied with such perfection that morning. 

“Perhaps you do not need to say anything,” said Ferdinand. He turned his head so his lips and nose brushed against Dorothea’s hair. “Your tears tell me enough.”

“No, I… I’m sorry,” Dorothea replied. “I don’t even know why I’m crying, I just…”

Her shoulders heaved once with a sob she thought she could contain, and she swallowed hard, wiping at her face with the handkerchief, willing herself to calm down.

“I don’t know,” she said, several deep breaths later. “Maybe you’re right. What my—” 

Dorothea paused, struggling to say the word, because part of her still could not accept the reality of it.

“What my father did, it wasn’t exactly unique. A lot of people who turned up their noses at me eventually changed their tune. But I was never really, you know, _angry_ about it until I met him. Something about it being him… I don’t know. It was different. And it made _me_ different.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago, those days before outrage and bitterness had clouded Dorothea’s heart, but she could still remember what it felt like to be free of them. Things had happened to her as a young girl, terrible things—kidnappings, assaults, and one nobleman had even tried to kill her for publicly rejecting his advances—and she had weathered them all without anger. She’d grown fearful and morose, so overwhelmed by her melancholia that some days she’d had to be dragged to the opera house to perform. 

But it was not until Dorothea had met the man she’d believed to be her father that something within her had snapped, and she’d begun to feel the hot, choking grasp of outrage toward everyone who’d ever hurt her—as well as anyone who’d even reminded her, however subconsciously, of those people. 

“Goddess,” Dorothea murmured, shaking her head. “I was so horrid to you. And I—I _know_ I wouldn’t have been like that if it weren’t for him, and yet I can’t just pretend like it’s all his fault and I didn’t know better.”

There were times when she’d even enjoyed it, throwing barbs at Ferdinand, just to knock him down a peg, like taking her anger out on him would somehow right the wrongs that had been inflicted upon her. The prospect of it had seemed like a balm to her own wounds at first, yet as the months passed, she’d begun to realize how little it actually helped. It changed nothing, and eventually, it only managed to make Dorothea feel even more rotten.

“The pain that man has caused you troubles me far more than anything unkind you said to me in our schooldays,” said Ferdinand, and Dorothea leaned her head against his shoulder, sniffling again.

She could not understand how her husband didn’t hold any of this against her, but then, perhaps she had been like him once, when she was young and on the streets, and the worst cruelty she had endured was nothing more than a few harsh words. But that was long ago, before the world had torn her open, and Dorothea knew she was not the same.

“Still,” she murmured, nestling closer against his side. She reached across his body, grasping his hand, her mother’s opal ring digging into her palm. “I’m so sorry, Ferdie.”

“I know,” he replied simply, before leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “I know.”

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the Black Eagles’ family names are creative transliterations of the names of Norse mythological figures. (For example, Bestla → べストラ → Vestra, Váli → ヴァーリ → Varley, etc.) Dorothea’s father is named after the goddess Rán, a personification of the sea. She's the wife of the jötunn Ægir, but there's more to the reference I'd like to touch upon in a sequel to this.


End file.
